The Killing Song: The Dragon Below Book III Read Free Page A

I will wear this body no longer than I must.” Dah’mir shook his wings. “Nothing must go wrong now.”
    “What could go wrong?”
    Dah’mir fixed him with a glittering eye, and Vennet felt his elation vanish. “Never ask that question in jest,” Dah’mir said. “I thought myself invulnerable and I was wounded. I will not allow it to happen again.”
    “But Geth, Dandra, and Singe must be dead,” Vennet protested. “Hruucan or Tzaryan Rrac—”
    “There’s been no word from Hruucan and no news of him either. If Hruucan failed, then Tzaryan Rrac wouldn’t have thrown his life away.”
    “But we don’t know they’re alive—and they couldn’t know we’re in Sharn.”
    Dah’mir’s bill clacked. “We don’t know they’re dead. And they seem to have a way of knowing things they shouldn’t. Learn, Vennet. Learn and make plans. I have made arrangements for our enemies.”
    He spread his wings and hopped up onto the crumbledremains of a wall, lifted his head and gave a whistling call. Within moments, another heron flapped out of the shadows and settled beside him. It looked similar to Dah’mir’s heron form—black feathers and green eyes—but it was subtly smaller and its feathers were ragged with a greasy sheen to them. Perhaps a dozen of the birds had accompanied them to Sharn, the remnants of a once larger flock. Vennet had often wondered if the herons’ similarity to Dah’mir was more than just coincidence. They were no ordinary birds; the one perched beside Dah’mir met the dragon’s gaze fearlessly, and it looked as if the two black birds were conversing. After a moment, the heron let out a call, spread its wings again, and flew off into the night. Other winged forms followed. Vennet watched them fly out over the raw canyon, then up among the towers until they vanished from sight.
    “Plan carefully, Vennet,” Dah’mir said. “I will not fail now.”

C HAPTER

2
       F rom the surface of the Dagger River, among the wharves that lined the base of the cliffs on which it was built, Sharn was a sight to inspire awe. When the sun shone, the City of Towers was a shining monument, soaring into the heavens, the unthinkable height of its massive spires pointing like spears at the underbelly of the sky. As the ragged ship that carried the name
White Bull
came alongside one of the wharves and mooring lines were thrown to waiting dockworkers, however, the sun wasn’t shining. The sky was heavy with clouds the color and weight of lead, and Sharn was less a monument than a warning. It was a looming, titanic thug, waiting to crush anyone who came within reach of its bulk.
    Singe stood on the deck of the
White Bull
, stared up at the dark stone of the cliffs and the city, and let out his breath slowly. “This is it,” he said. “We’re here.”
    To his right, Natrac grumbled and dug the point of the long knife strapped over the stump of his right wrist into the sun-bleached wood of the rail. “I didn’t think I’d be coming back here.”
    Singe turned to look at the half-orc. “You could have gone to the Shadow Marches with Geth—or home to Zarash’ak.”
    “Too late for that.” He twisted his arm, and a shaving of wood curled up. “Sharn. Bah. The only city in the world where you can fall to your death getting out of bed.”
    Singe would have smiled if he’d felt at all like smiling.Instead he turned to his other side. “What about you?” he asked. “How are you feeling?”
    Dandra’s long, black hair whirled in the breeze, tangling around the shaft of the short spear she wore strapped across her back. Her eyes were fixed on the heights of the city. “Sharn’s a big place,” she said without shifting her gaze, “but whatever Dah’mir has planned, he’s not going to get away with it. We’re going to stop him.”
    Her voice was determined, but it was seldom less than determined. Singe reached over and put his hand over hers where she gripped the rail. “That’s not what I